


Distant Properties

by casual_distance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Drinking to Cope, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Panic Attacks, Prosthetic/Mechanical Limb, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 07:50:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6229945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casual_distance/pseuds/casual_distance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean lives alone in broken down house, the land around him yellow grass and dirt.  It’s quiet, and that’s the way Dean likes it.  That’s the way it stays, until someone shows up on Dean’s doorstep, bringing noise and the past with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distant Properties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoralQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoralQueen/gifts).



> For the prompt from Evangeline74: _I want a universe that is in the future where there is full of tech and Dean is bitter old man who became a hermit because of an incident that forced him to stop hunting. He has become even more jaded realizing no matter what he does he cannot lower the damage that supernatural beings cause. Sam and Cas have either died or not on good terms with Dean. He is just lives day to day trying to live with his feelings of sadness and anger. That is until a young hunter finds him wanting to get revenge on a supernatural being. After much grief Dean finally agrees to train him._

It's the jacket Dean notices first- dirty green camo, worn thin at the wrists and around the neck, the elbows patches of white. It's too large for the kid wearing it, so Dean knows it once belonged to the kid's father. Dean knows this in the way that his own leather jacket once sat too wide on his shoulders, the cuffs falling down to hide his hands even when he pushed them up.

Dean spares a glance for the kid- dirty white skin, dark hair buzz cut close to his head, a perpetual sneer on his mouth that deepens when he sees Dean looking. Dean raises an eyebrow at him, and he looks away. Dean watches until the waitress drops a plate of food in front of him, her metal fingers clinking against the ceramic. Dean shoots an easy grin and a wink up at her. She rolls her eyes at him, but she does it with a smile and a brush of her fingers against his shoulder as she leaves.

The food- what passes for it anyway- is edible, but that's the best you get these days unless you're in a big city and willing to pay more than the food's worth. Dean digs in. The mashed protein looks like scrambled eggs even if it doesn't taste it. A vegetable mash of some kind has been mixed with protein strips- some kind of hash brown casserole according to the menu. Dean smothers it with hot sauce and it loses some of its chemical taste.

The waitress comes by again to take his plate and Dean taps his wrist against the payment dock, his barcode tagging his account for the amount of the meal. As he pushes out the door, his phone rings. Dean answers to find the post office on the line, demanding he pick up his boxes. Dean ends the call without saying anything but heads that way.

He's got three months’ worth of letters and boxes from Bobby. Dean accepts them with a scowl from the clerk who rolls her eyes and doesn't soften it with a smile or lingering touch. Dean tosses the mess into his cab and sits for a minute. The kid from the diner leans up against the wall of the post office. A cigarette dangles from his mouth as he stares at Dean. Dean stares back until the kid looks away and then he kicks the cab on and roars away in a mess of noise and displaced air.

Dean stops at the surplus store and stocks up on boxes of protein, toilet paper, and anything else he can fit in his cab. As Dean loads up, he spots the kid again, loitering a few cabs down. The kid ducks between the cabs when he sees Dean watching. Dean shakes his head and shoves the last box in.

At home, he unloads his groceries, tossing the boxes into the garage, and then gathers his mail. He sits on the porch and sorts through it. Even though Dean told himself to expect it, there's nothing from Sam. Two letters are from Cas, and Dean unrolls them to see that they're long missives describing the cases he's been working on. Dean skims through them before he tosses them into the yard for the hot evening breeze to carry away. The rest of the mail is from Bobby. Dean ignores the letters and opens the boxes, finding booze and silver and real food that can't be bought cheap.

Dean drags it all inside. He leaves the food on the kitchen counter, tosses the silver into the garage, and hauls the booze into his bedroom. He knocks the empty bottles off his nightstand and lines up the new ones. Dean strips, leaving his clothes on the floor, and stretches with a low moan as pain shoots through his hips and down his leg to his knee. It doesn't stop there even though it should. Dean reaches down to rub at the seam of his leg, the bionic metal humming under his fingers. Dean traces up his leg, rubbing over the twisted skin where it fades into unburnt smoothness at his hip. Dean drops onto his bed. He grabs the closest bottle, untwists the top, and drinks until he passes out.

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes late in the night. He stumbles into the bathroom to piss. He braces himself on the wall above the toilet as he empties his bladder. He stands there when he's done, eyes half closed, sleep creeping in. The toilet beeps and then flushes, the water sluggish. Dean jerks himself into movement and stumbles back to his bedroom. He drinks again but this time when sleep comes, so do the nightmares.

 

* * *

 

Pounding wakes Dean. He rolls over and drags a pillow over his head. It muffles the sound, and Dean realizes it’s not a hallucination. He pulls his head from under his pillow and squints in the light of the room. The sun is high overhead. Dean groans and buries his head under his pillow again. Eventually the pounding goes away. Dean lets his headache drag him under into sleep again.

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes just as the sun starts to set, free of his hangover and with hunger clawing at his gut. He drags himself from his bed and wanders into the kitchen. Bobby's boxes still sit on the counter and Dean digs through them until he finds dry cereal. He rips the bag open and eats leaning against the counter. Hunger abated, Dean dresses and heads into the garage. The door creaks open slowly to reveal a second cab sitting beside his own. Dean squints at it for a moment before he walks out to look at it.

It's dirty, banged up, scratches running its length. Dean thinks idly it would be at home here where his house is falling down, care long since forgotten, the cab beside it also unwashed and in rough shape. Dean huffs a laugh and kicks it.

Inside the cab, someone jerks upright, startling Dean. He cusses as he lurches away, nearly tripping over his own feat. The kid from town blinks at him through the window.

"Jesus fuck," Dean swears. He raps his knuckles on the window. "Get out here, kid."

The kid obeys, pushing the door open and slamming it shut once he's foot-to-ground beside it. He scowls up at Dean.

"What are you doin' here?" Dean asks.

"Are you Dean Winchester?"

"Who's askin'?"

"I want to be a hunter," the kid says instead of giving of his name.

"Yeah? Good luck with that. Ain't been game around here in decades." Dean turns to head back into the house. Sweat beads up under his arms and in the small of his back. He wants to pull the curtains closed in his room and sleep through the next week.

"I know you're a hunter," the kid hollers after him. "I know you hunt things that ain't right. Animals that ain't really animals. People that ain't really people."

Dean spins. "Yeah, and if they aren't people or animals, what are they?"

The kid lifts his chin in defiance. "Wendigos. Chupacabras. Shifters. Demons."

Dean shakes his head. "Fairy tales, kid."

"No, they're-"

Dean cuts him off with a flick of his hand. He slams the controls to the garage door and watches it slide shut, blocking the image of the kid as he glares at Dean.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Dean's in the garage, shoving boxes aside and sorting through the junk he hasn't brought himself to throw away yet when he hears the high whine of a cab coming up his drive. Dean squints into the distance; he can barely make out the damaged cube before he realizes who it is. Dean closes the garage door and works in the stifling heat of enclosed space.

As Dean counts the number of silver knives he's somehow managed to collect, Dean hears the kid bang on his front door. He lasts for ten minutes before he gives up. Dean pauses in his work and listens to the scuffling sound of the kid's boots as he starts to circle the house. The kid slams a fist into the garage door, the metal vibrating, making Dean jump in place. The kid keeps wandering, and Dean knows he's hit one of the booby traps when he hears loud cursing. The kid hobbles back, his easy gate now gone lopsided as he drags a foot.

Dean smirks to himself and makes a mental note to check the traps and see which one was set off.

The kid's cab starts up with a complaining squeal and then whines its way down the dirt road away from Dean's house. Dean leaves the garage door down and continues to work.

 

* * *

 

He comes every day for a week, banging on Dean's front door like Dean's going to answer it. He doesn't wander again, though, which is something, Dean thinks.

 

* * *

 

Dean gets caught when he leaves a few weeks later to get supplies. The kid's waiting by Dean's cab, his own missing. Dean stops and groans in irritation.

"Get gone," he orders, but the kid only lurches upright and comes over to fumble at Dean's heels.

"Look, I know who you are," he says. "You're Dean Winchester. You used to be the greatest hunter-"

Dean laughs at that, an honest-to-god laugh that has his shoulders shaking and his stomach clenching and his hand braced against the cab's roof. 

"Greatest hunter that ever was?" Dean asks, wiping tears from his eyes. "Fuck off with that bullshit."

He hits the fob and the cab unlocks. Dean slides into the front seat and catches the kid sprinting around to make for the passenger door. Dean jabs the fob and the doors lock. The kid jerks on the handle, but Dean just smirks at him. He stabs the start button and the cab whirs to life. Dean jerks it around, the kid jumping out of the way, and takes off. The kid's cab sits on the side of the road halfway to Dean's property.

"Kid's got moxy," Dean says to himself with a snort.

 

* * *

 

The kid catches him in the city at the same diner as before. Dean's halfway through his protein-mash burger when he shows up and sits down across from Dean. The burger's not that great, so Dean just flags down the waitress, tapping his wrist against her payment dock before he takes off. The kid follows him from store to store and won't shut up.

"Look- I know you hunt-"

"Used to, kid. Retired now," Dean grunts.

"Cole."

Dean doesn't bother to spare a look for his confusion, just tosses a box of chocolate flavored protein pretending to be candy into his cart.

"My dad's house was haunted, okay? When I was a kid. He got real sick from his military service and he had problems, okay? But that ghost was real. And no one believed him. It burned the house down. My sister was killed in the fire, but whatever was keepin' the ghost there, it got caught in the fire too. So the ghost was gone and they all thought my dad had done it."

"How do you know he didn't? Sounds like the kinda nutter that would off his own kid."

Cole scoffs. "He _didn't_. I know my dad, okay? He loved us, and he wouldn't have killed my sister. 'Sides we looked it up, okay? We went to the library and we looked up ghosts and we saw how you have to salt and burn them."

Dean turns to face the kid. "Right. Salt and burn them. The house burning wouldn't have done it. The ghost would have still been there. Face it, your dad-"

"He didn't!" Cole shouts, face going red with his indignation.

Dean sighs and turns his back again, pushing the cart toward checkout and past a woman with her daughter as she stares at the two of them. Dean ignores them both, and he ignores Cole as the kid follows after him, still talking.

"We researched the ghost, alright? Found out what was keeping it there was in the cellar. Dad stored our salt there. It was chance, but good chance."

Dean gets in line behind an older man, one hunch-backed with his hair missing, smelling faintly like piss. Dean thinks he knows the guy- or recognizes him at least- and he tries to pinpoint from where.

Cole keeps talking. "My dad got into hunting, but he wouldn't let me. That's why I need you. You need to teach me what you know so I can go after the thing that killed my dad."

The old man pays. He glances over his shoulder at Cole, but says nothing. Dean realizes that he's been in the bar each time Dean's gone there. Dean pushes his cart through the scanner. He watches the items beep into place on the display. The cashier confirms it and gives Dean his total. Dean taps his wrist against the payment dock and accepts his boxed groceries from the cashier.

Cole follows him into the parking lot. "It was demons that killed him. He ended up on this case. In Clayton, Indiana. He was tracking demon sign without knowing it and one of them, it got into him. He attacked a couple of other hunters with him-"

Dean knows where this story goes and he isn't interested in hearing it. He spins around and pushes at Cole's shoulder.

"I don't care. I don't care about your sob story." Dean leans close, pushing at him again. "You think you're the only one who's ever lost someone? That's it, that's the job. Loss and pain. I don't give a damn about your fantasy revenge."

Dean leaves Cole standing there in the parking lot. He takes off in his cab, boxes stacked uncomfortably next to him, jabbing into his arm.

 

* * *

 

It's a relief when Cole doesn't show up the next day. Dean wanders the fence line of his property checking to make sure the electric fence is still up and running. He tosses stones into the barrier, amusement kicking through him each time a shower of sparks rains down into the yellowed grass. It lasts only as long as it takes him to think of the way Sam would be disapprovingly amused, as if Dean's no better than a little kid.

The smile he hadn't even realized was on his face fades away. Dean trudges along the fence line, abandoning the rocks for a stick which he taps every hundred yards or so against the fence. It buzzes under the light touch each time.

 

* * *

 

The garage is still packed full of crap, but Dean ignores it and sits on his porch most days, watching the sun crawl across the sky. Jets zip overhead during the day- low flying, high speed things that make his stomach clench in sympathetic fear for the fools on board. It's strangely quiet nowadays, and it makes Dean think about being a kid and wandering in the wilderness with his father and brother.

Makes Dean think about a time when things were simpler and Sam still looked at him like he was some kind of hero, even if he never was.

 

* * *

 

Cole comes back before the month is out. He wakes Dean by pounding on the door late one evening. Dean starts awake on the couch, kicking over empty bottles. His head thrums with pain. Dean hangs his head between his knees, swallowing back bile as nausea overwhelms him. The knocking continues until Dean forces himself to his feet. He stumbles to his room and digs out his father's gun from the nightstand. He jerks the door open, aiming for Cole's head. Cole staggers forward, nearly knocking into Dean. He sees the gun and rears back.

"Get the fuck off my property," Dean grits out.

Cole stares at him wide-eyed. His eyes drop from Dean's face to the gun. It shakes in his hand. Cole looks back up at him, and Dean sees the thought in his eyes before Cole even has it.

Cole lunges for him, hands reaching out for the gun, but Dean- he's fought drunk, he's fought high, he's fought with half a leg missing, blood pouring out of him. Dean jerks back, pulling the gun from Cole's reach and slams his fist into Cole's face. Cole reels, hands flying to his face as blood pours out of his nose and down his chin.

Cole trips on the stairs and falls down them. Dean watches him sprawl on his back in the dirt. He steps up to the edge of the porch and stares down at him.

"Kid, if I can kick your ass hung over six ways to Sunday, you wouldn't make it one hunt. Get lost."

Dean slams the door behind him. The lock whirs into place. Dean tosses the gun on the couch and heads for the kitchen where he finds nothing but empty cabinets.

 

* * *

 

Cole comes back the next day, banging loudly. Dean lets him bang, sitting in the garage, booted foot braced on a box. Dean takes a pull straight from a bottle of whisky and listens.

 

* * *

 

He comes back every day for two weeks. Dean lets him bang on the front door, sometimes escaping out the back or hiding in the garage. The banging becomes white noise until one day it changes. Dean sits up on his couch, beer bottle braced against his knee, and listens.

The hard thump comes again, the door shaking in its frame. Dean narrows his eyes. He grabs his gun and waits. The thump comes again and this time Dean is sure. He waits, timing each thump, hoping his door doesn't give out first. When he's got the rhythm, he waits, hand on the door knob. Just before the kick comes, Dean jerks the door open. Cole collapses under his own momentum. He lands awkwardly, shouting as his ankle twists under him. Cole rolls onto his back and glares up at Dean. He holds his ankle, leg curled up to his body.

Dean shakes his head. He kicks at Cole's side and waves the gun.

"Get lost, kid."

Cole catches Dean’s foot and tries to take him down. Dean yanks his leg away and sends another swift kick at Cole's body. Cole rolls away from it. He lurches to his feet, hoping on one foot.

"Better get that taken care of," Dean sneers. He shoves at Cole until the boy hops out the front door. He can't fight Dean, can't do anything but try to keep upright. Cole grabs at the door jamb with both hands until Dean holds the butt of the gun up.

"I will smash them," he threatens.

"You're a fucking freak," Cole spits at him.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Tell me something I don't know." 

He gestures with the gun again, and this time Cole gets the hint. He lets go and hops out onto the porch under his own power.

"Don't come back," Dean says before slamming the door shut.

He doesn't.

 

* * *

 

Dean wakes to the sound of splintering wood. He's on his feet before he’s conscious, gun in his hand, leg kicking to life too slowly. It takes a minute before he can move, and then he creeps toward the living room. He'd fallen asleep at the kitchen table, bottle of whiskey half drunk. It's probably the only thing he's got going for him right now, because the shadow that's crept into his house is making its way to the hallway where the bedroom and bathroom branch off.

Dean watches it slink through the living room. He waits until it’s facing the hallway, back to Dean, before Dean crosses the living room in a few quick strides. He sets the gun to the shadow's head.

"Don't move," he says softly. "Tell me what you're doing here."

The shadow freezes. It raises its hands. An arm moves into a weak band of moonlight; Dean recognizes that jacket.

"The fuck-" he starts, but then Cole is spinning, the heel of his hand catching Dean in the nose, forcing his head back with the sharp sound of something breaking.

Dean swears, caught off guard. He raises his hands to cover his face, but immediately has to change direction as Cole swings at him again.

The fight dissolves into a rapid back-and-forth, Dean staggering with pain and blood and alcohol. Cole is far more put together. He's prepared, and it catches Dean off guard when Cole pulls a knife and slashes through the air with it. It catches Dean in the cheek, sends him reeling. Dean puts space between them, limping on his flesh-and-bone foot. His nose isn't bleeding any more, but he can feel the dampness on his cheek. He reaches up and realizes it's not as bad as it had felt.

"Wanted to train with me, huh?" Dean asks with a twist of a smile.

Cole snorts. He flips the knife from one hand to the other and then back again. "I've been training my whole life. Since my father died."

"Well, good for you."

Cole's face twists and he lunges for Dean. Dean dodges. He's lost the gun, but he's not sure when or where. He circles the living room slowly, trying to find it with his feet. Cole watches him warily, feinting toward him to make Dean lurch away.

"What's your deal anyway?" Dean asks, hoping for a distraction.

"I want revenge."

"Yeah, I got that. Demons killed Daddy."

Cole snorts a laugh. "Demons didn't kill him. You did."

Dean's blood runs to ice. He keeps moving though, keeps distance between them, feet kicking out as much as he dares, trying to find his gun. "I don't know what you mean."

"I know that was your hunt," Cole says.

He lunges again and they exchange blows. Cole manages to catch his shoulder with the blade, cutting the meat of it. Dean hisses as he lurches back. Dean's moving slower, his body dragged down by exhaustion and blood loss.

"It was your hunt and you fucked it up," Cole spits at him. "You let those demons take innocent people, and you didn't care about who they were in. Just slashed your way through them all. That was my father!"

Cole tosses his knife away and throws himself at Dean. He slams shoulder first into Dean’s chest, and they crash to the floor together. They scuffle, Dean trying to catch ahold of Cole, while Cole kicks and punches him. Dean manages to get him pinned on his stomach. Dean twists his arm behind his back and bears down until Cole stops thrashing, a pained groan escaping him.

When Cole goes limp, Dean lets go, staggering back to sit on the couch.

"I tried-" Dean starts.

Cole surges to his feet, spinning around and lunging toward Dean. "The hell you did," he growls as he wrestles with Dean.

Dean gets his feet under him and knocks Cole to the floor. Cole scrambles up again. He crouches low and glares at Dean.

"Kid- Cole," he corrects when Cole bares his teeth. "Look-"

"No. I'm through listening to you."

Cole lunges for him again. In the scuffle, his foot connects with Dean's bad knee- the knee that's all flesh and blood- and sends him to the ground. Dean kicks at him with his mechanical leg, but Cole's expecting it and grabs it. He twists Dean's foot. There's no pain- the pain is long gone even if the phantom sensations have remained all these years later. Cole pulls out a knife and stabs it into Dean's leg. Sparks fly and oil drips from the hole. Cole's mouth twists in a soundless snarl and he jerks the knife down, cutting through the machinery with ease.

Dean scrabbles at the ground, trying to leverage himself up, but the grip Cole has on his leg, the way the machinery is giving out, keeps Dean unbalanced. Dean kicks at him with his other foot, but Cole slashes him with the knife. Blood pours from the wound, slicking his pant leg. Dean grunts with pain and falls back to the floor panting. Cole keeps hacking at his leg. Dean twists his body, trying to dislodge Cole's hold. Cole kicks at him.

"Hold still or I'll cut your other leg off."

"I killed your father so you're going to dismember me?" Dean snarls. "Why don't you just kill me?"

Cole snorts and severs the leg, letting Dean drop flat to the ground. Cole tosses the bionic portion across the room. He points his knife at Dean. The blade is slick with oil and blood.

"You're gonna tell me everything about that night and then I'm going to kill you. I don't want any excuses."

Dean chokes on a laugh. "You don't want to know what happened. You just want to live your fantasy story."

Cole rushes forward to stand over Dean, feet planted on either side of Dean's body. He points the knife in Dean's face. "I want the truth."

Dean bats at his hand. Cole lets him, stepping away.

"The truth?" Dean spits. "The truth is that your dad was already dead by the time I got there. Him and every other asshole in that house." Dean drags himself across the floor, using his intact leg as leverage. He props himself against the wall. "They'd all made deals with the demons that were in them. But here's the thing- demons? Demons don't give a shit about deals. They'll turn on you faster than you can blink."

Cole stares at him, face disbelieving. "Why would my father make a deal?"

Dean shrugs. "You think I know? It was already done by the time we got there. They'd already killed a bunch of innocent people. They killed more before we managed to get to them."

Dean closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall. He tries not to remember it, but he can only think about the people wanting out. About the demon hidden among them. He can only think about the lives lost because he hadn't been able to do what was needed. What he should have done. Dean tips his head down to stare at the ragged edges of his fake leg, oil soaking across the floor. Distantly, Dean thinks, _It'll stain._

"I don't know what deal your dad made, kid, but he did. You gotta learn to accept it. Gotta-" Dean exhales noisily. "You're gonna end up like this." He waves a hand around. "End up in some abandoned house with no family or friends. Some kid bent on killing you. You want this? You hold onto your anger."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Cole stares at him. Even in the dim light, the wet shine is visible, the tracks of tears down his cheeks.

Dean snorts. "You don't. But why would I lie? Just. Go home, kid. Let it go. Get married. Have kids. Just- Get out of here."

Cole stares at him again. Dean doesn't bother looking back. Finally Cole drops his knife. He leaves Dean sitting in the floor as he leaves the house, a ghost walking through shadows. Dean sighs and closes his eyes. He digs his knuckles into them. He feels cracked open, hollow. 

In some ways he never thinks about that hunt, but in other ways, he's always thinking of it. It had gone wrong from the beginning, been the wrong intel, the wrong lead, the wrong conclusion.

The wrong everything.

 

* * *

 

Dean dreams of lying on the floor, leg missing, pain leaving him senseless, blood pouring from every crack and ache in his body. Cas kneels next to him, hands on the stump of his leg, trying to stop the bleeding.

"They were demons. They were all demons," Cas says, but the words don't make sense. Instead, he hears, "You're nothing but a demon, Dean."

Dean wakes choking on nothing. He rolls from his bed, landing hard on the floor and scrambles to his hands and knees. Sweat soaks his clothes. Dean forces himself to take a deep breath. It catches in his chest, as does the next and the one after that. He doesn't know when, but eventually he can breathe, his chest heaving. He leans up against his bed, stretching his legs out in front of him. He stares down at his half leg. It's still ragged, bits of metal and wire hanging free. He folds his leg up to his chest and tugs at the wires. They stick tight, but he expected it. It’s the best tech a red-haired run-away can build, after all.

Dean stretches his leg out again and rests his head back against the bed. The smell of his own sweat gags Dean for a moment. He pushes up to his knees and then climbs to his foot, hopping through his bedroom to the closet.

His phone is buried under a pile of boxes, locked in the trunk where he left it when he moved in. Dean digs it out and hops to the kitchen. He sits on the floor next to the outlet in the dining area and plugs the phone in. He doesn't even know if it'll charge, it's so old. It buzzes in his hands. Panic swamps him; he drops it to the floor and buries his head in his hands.

He can't do this, can't be that person again. 

He thinks about the last time he saw Cas, standing in the middle of the street, arms folded across his chest, watching Dean drive away.

Dean picks up his phone. 7%. Dean holds down the power button. The screen lights up.

It takes a moment but the phone loads. Another few moments and his phone starts dinging. Dean watches as alerts for text messages flash across the screen. Dean watches until the screen goes black. He waits until the phone stops buzzing and then turns it on again.

_1400 messages_

Dean thumbs open the message app. Most are from Cas. None are from Sam. A few are from Bobby. 

Dean opens Cas’s most recent. It's a picture attachment that won't load. So are the previous three. Then: _i wish you were here. its a beautiful day_

_> > children are confounding_

_> > hunt went well_

_> > salt & burn from bobby_

_> > spoke with sam today. he's very quiet without you._

_> > it's not your fault_

_> > i'm fine_

_> > it was a djinn_

_> > found a curious hunt._

_> > it's not your fault_

_> > it's not your fault_

_> > it's not your fault_

Dean closes his eyes and draws in a shaky breath. He opens it and forces himself to hit the call button.

The phone rings three times before Cas answers.

"Dean?"

Dean breathes into the phone.

"Dean." Cas sounds sad, longing. He clears his throat. "How are you?"

Dean laughs, bitter, hollow.

Cas says nothing, not for a long time. They sit in silence together until Cas sighs into the phone. It gusts, loud and noisy, in Dean’s ear.

"I miss you," Cas says.

Dean hangs up the phone.

 

* * *

 

It’s not until he’s half asleep, inhibitions dulled by alcohol that he realizes Cas kept the same phone number all these years.

 

* * *

 

Dean doesn’t call the next day, but Cas calls him. When Dean doesn’t answer, he sends a message. Dean turns the phone off.

When Dean brings himself to check the phone again, there’s a message for each day he’d ignored it. Dean reads through them all.

He doesn’t call that day, or the next, but by the time he does, it’s easier to pick up the phone, easier to listen to Cas ramble in his ear while he sits and listens.

It gets easier day by day.


End file.
